


sea may rise, sky may fall

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [13]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Anniversary, Bondage, Dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Monster Trauma, Oh no they were quarantined, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: No one plans to spend their first anniversary under quarantine during a global pandemic. Quentin and Eliot make the most of it, while they navigate unsure footing in both their inner landscapes and outside the protection of the penthouse.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: the one with the dog [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404727
Comments: 53
Kudos: 219





	sea may rise, sky may fall

**Author's Note:**

> I had really wanted to get this out in June, as a pride/anniversary fic. But the more I tried to work on it, the more I realized I couldn't ignore the current state of the world, because this fic is so closely tied to my own experiences of reality. I myself have been struggling with dealing with the mental affects of everything going on, so it ended up taking a little longer than I hoped. Thank you to everyone still reading and encouraging this verse. I'm so glad you're still enjoying it. I hope you're all doing well, I'm so grateful for this fandom and for everyone keeping the boys alive.
> 
> I can't thank [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) enough for all her hard work beta reading and cheerleading and talking me through this fic. Much love, bub <3

It feels kind of monumentally unfair, on some cosmic level, that they’ve just barely settled into something that feels like _normal life_ , a hard-fought-for, just barely experienced _normal life_ , when the world has to go and turn upside down.

Fucking viruses. Fucking non-magical world altering global pandemic that they can do nothing about.

It just comes on so fast. Everything feels normal, and then suddenly everything’s on fire. The hard-won sense of equilibrium, the feeling of having finally settled into a life that didn’t involve the actual end of the actual world stripped away in a cloud of a slowly-encroaching dread over the course of a single week in mid-March. Like the onset of claustrophobia, their world shrank, and shrank, and shrank, from a multi-planetary existence to the confines of their penthouse, stretching occasionally to the dog-park or the grocery store. Suddenly, life has a different shape.

Now, life is shaped like Alice and Kady moving temporarily to full-time residence at the Library, in the name of protecting the small contingent of Librarians left in the New Order. It’s Penny more or less fully locking down on the Brakebills campus, behind the industrial-grade wards, as Travelers seemed to be particularly susceptible to this new virus. It’s transferring the prescription for Quentin’s antidepressants from CVS to the nearest grocery store, so they can cut down on the number of stops they have to make outside. It’s fewer walks, less to do, more restlessness. It’s harsh time-lock suspension spell over the Fillory clock, without even bunnies traveling back and forth, to make sure not a single ounce of infected air can spread to a population without even basic medical services. 

Eliot can’t stop thinking, as they do the spell, of the sickness that took Arielle from them, in the life they’d never had. How pale she’d been with fever, how she’d shivered under the meager pile blankets... how they’d had to keep Teddy away from her, until he snuck in to sleep beside her one night, and there hadn’t seemed to be much point after that. How they’d talked about the centaurs, Chatwin’s torrent, anything, but it had come too fast and too hard, and then both of them had been sick too. They got better. She didn’t.

So; temporal stasis spells around the Fillory clock. 

At least they aren’t alone. At least they have each other. It would be foolish not to be grateful for that, watching Julia wind herself up over the fact that she’s suddenly cut off from both of her partners, locked behind wards and in another fold of reality. The decision not to follow 23 to Brakebills had been a tough one, but the reality is, with her demi-god indestructibility, Julia’s safer than anyone else out in the world, and the magical crises don’t stop just because the world has ground to a halt. There are still magic surges to deal with, and if anything the cutthroat landscape of the covens has only gotten worse, everyone scrambling to get a hold of any wards or talismans they might use to protect themselves.

Black market charms have flooded the hedge scene, and well— at least Quentin can keep busy and keep money coming in, working to help sort through the junk, curse-breaking is two steps away from mendings in terms of magical theory: being able to tell what the object wanted to be, and helping it undo the forces twisting it away from that. At least he can keep busy. At least they have wards, maybe not as good as the wards at Brakebills, but better than nothing; enough that they can walk the dog without feeling like the world is ending.

Even if it kind of is. 

__

Quentin’s mother calls him every week now.

“I haven’t,” he grumbles into Eliot’s armpit one afternoon sometime in the endless slog of time which somehow both does and doesn’t exist that is April 2020, “— talked to her this much since I was nine years old. I’m honestly not sure I talked to her that much even before she and my dad separated.”

“It’s probably, like, how she’s showing she cares,” Eliot offers, sounding just— way more skeptical, probably, than he should, but well— He’s still not exactly Jackie’s biggest fan, despite Quentin’s ongoing attempts to mend fences. Still, it’s probably not... actively malicious. Probably. Instead of voicing that, he cards his fingers through Quentin’s hair, and turns his attention back to the show he’d been watching before Quentin came back from the balcony and face planted in his chest.

“More like she needs to control something,” Q sighs, voice dull. When Eliot stretches a little to look down at him, he’s frowning. “She’s trying to send us produce again. Which is nice! Except—”

“Except it inevitably turns into a conversation about how you’re eating and what you’re eating and if you’re exercising—”

“— and if I’ve considered stopping the meds, again,” Quentin agrees, sighing, and Eliot’s stomach drops, turning over in frustration and anger. He kind of wants to scream, and also like— drink half a bottle of whiskey. Neither of which he’ll do. Probably. “I dunno. Molly’s volunteering at this like— produce co-op place, and it’s. Good, I guess? But it just kind of sounds like an excuse to not— actually quarantine? And I’m like— Like, they’re not 60 yet, or well. Molly is, mom’s like 58. But they’re probably fine. They’re probably fine.”

“They’re fine,” Eliot soothes, even though he doesn’t— he doesn’t fucking _know_ , he doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t know how to help. All that he knows is that Quentin, sweetheart, disaster boy, love of Eliot’s life, can’t handle losing another parent, right as he’s decided to try to fix things with them. Not again. So it’s got to be fine. Because there’s no other option, not one that Eliot’s willing to consider. “Did you tell her we can get produce fine, at the moment?”

“Yeah,” Quentin sighs, twisting around a little on the couch until he’s actually curled up against Eliot’s side, instead of sprawled awkwardly out like a starfish. “What are you watching, anyway?”

“Queer Eye— how do you _not know this_?”

“I recognize them from some memes, I think?” Quentin says, scrunching up his nose. “I dunno, never seemed like it was like... for me?”

“That’s bullshit,” Eliot says succinctly, reaching for the remote to restart the episode. Restart the _season_ , maybe. “It’s for everyone. It’s literally just a feel good show. I’m rewatching, because season five is coming out soon, but you’ll like it. You like Bake-Off.”

“I like baking, though,” Q protests, but still— he settles in, doesn’t he, against Eliot’s side. “I don’t really do, like... fashion or architecture or whatever.”

Eliot bites on a laugh, and sits on the urge to tell him that’s literally the point. “If you don’t want to watch it, we can do something else.”

“Like what?” Quentin says dryly. “More yoga? Clean the bathroom again? Online shopping for shit we don’t need?”

“I absolutely needed a spinning spice rack, excuse you. Need I remind you that we special ordered artisanal flour for _your_ baking.”

“Mhmm, and the embroidery supplies?”

“Necessary,” Eliot insists, earnestly, even though he can’t— he can’t stop smiling, looking down into Q’s teasing face, the crinkles in the corners of his warm brown eyes. “Just count yourself lucky I haven’t gone after _your_ clothes yet. Another couple months of this and you might be walking around with like... Star Trek symbols embroidered on your pants.”

“I don’t hate that as much as I should,” Quentin admits, and Eliot has to kiss him. Just because he can. Because he’s here. Eliot’s still just— grateful, for that. That they’ve at least still got each other. It might be _too much_ togetherness, except, well. They’re no strangers to living in each other’s pockets, are they? In some ways, the isolation is familiar, like an old friend. The lack of anything to _do_ is difficult, but being together, all the time? They’ve got 50 years of practice at that. Now there’s even Julia, to provide a buffer, and the dog to walk and play with and care for, and the whole ass internet to entertain them. A glow up, in many ways. 

They get most of the way through the episode before Quentin admits: “This is better than I thought.”

“When will you admit that I am a man of impeccable taste?” Eliot teases, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“I just— you know, I figured I’d end up feeling bad about myself. Like I’m not up to the queer-guy standard or something.”

“Hush, you’re lovely,” Eliot murmurs, scraping his fingernails gently along Quentin’s scalp until he shivers.

“Well,” Quentin says ruefully, tilting his hair back to look up at Eliot. “You did help me last time I bought clothes. I think that’s more on you than it is on me.” He is, in fact, wearing clothes from their fall shopping venture now; a soft green henley and well fitted black jeans, the kind that will hug his ass deliciously when he stands up. 

“I like you no matter what you’re wearing,” Eliot murmurs, rubbing his fingers down to the sensitive skin behind Quentin’s ear while on the screen, Bobby Burke walks through a furniture store Eliot would frankly kill to raid himself. “I spent so much time jerking off about your stripy pajama shirt and joggers and cute little bare toes after sending you all off to the trials, it’s frankly embarrassing.”

“You’re right, that is embarrassing for you.” There’s a smile in his voice, though, that makes Eliot feel warm and relaxed all over. Dragging his fingers through Quentin’s soft hair has a meditative effect, all repetitive motion and human warmth. 

“Truly,” he agrees absently, pulling through the long strands, then offers, “want me to braid this for you, sweetheart?”

“M’kay,” Quentin agrees, and then there’s a small amount of shifting and rearranging, a muttered _how's your knee_ , and _fine, just don’t make me fold it up_ , and then they’re settled again, Quentin tucked in between Eliot’s thighs. 

Q’s hair is long enough to keep a braid now, finally, grown out to Eliot’s favorite length, the length he sees in his mind’s eye when he thinks of those early blissful years on the mosaic, when Quentin was just his, before he had to share him with anyone else. No matter how happy he was in the sharing, when Eliot thinks of falling in love, this is the haircut that comes to mind. Absently, he works a French braid into the strands, then shakes them free, switches instead to two Dutch braids, then lets them slide loose. 

“Do you think she’s right?” Quentin asks, quietly, and Eliot has to blink out of his meditative braiding trance. 

“Your mom?” Quentin hums an affirmative, and Eliot sighs. “About going off your meds? You know I don’t think so, but— that’s up to you, of course.”

“It just... doesn’t super feel like it’s working, as much, anymore,” Quentin admits, looking down, and Eliot just— leans in, a little, to kiss the back of his neck.

“Global traumatic event, darling,” Eliot reminds him gently, because they have gone over this. “Of course everything’s gone to shit in your brain, right now. Everything’s gone to shit everywhere right now. But I don’t think going _off_ your meds is going to make that better.”

“Yeah,” Q agrees, a sigh of a sound, and then pushes his head back into Eliot’s hands until he starts braiding again. “I know, you’re right. I think I just need, like— to hear it, you know?”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Mmm, just that.”

“Well, and maybe blowjobs,” Eliot teases, like it hasn’t been— fucking _weeks_ , since either of them has been anything remotely approaching horny. “And to eat your baking.”

“What else are boyfriends for?” Quentin offers absently, as Eliot finishes the loose French braid, tying it off with the elastic he pulls off Quentin's wrist. Then he’s got his hands free, to wrap around Quentin’s chest and hug him tight, pull him back against him until they are pressed together shoulder to pelvis. 

They’re interrupted by Julia, emerging from the upstairs of the penthouse, red-nosed and puffy-eyed in the way she gets when she’s been crying. Eliot feels a pang, somewhere, that there’s... nothing they can do, really, to help her, besides being what company they can. 

“Penny?” Quentin asks, sitting up and out of Eliot’s lap as Julia makes her way over to them, Dessy the distress sniffing dog hot on her heels. Because he’s emotionally evolved, Eliot doesn’t pout about it, just slides his hand onto Quentin’s thigh instead.

Julia nods, sinking down onto the couch. “He’s fine, he just— got a mirror through to the Library. Talked to Kady for a couple minutes before they lost the connection. But it’s a spell, and I can’t—”

“I can help you cast it,” Eliot offers, and Julia gives him a weak smile.

“The one that got through was the kind that only works for the caster. Neither of you could actually, you know— help me with it.” A yap from the floor draws all their attention down to Dessy, who’s got her paws on the couch and is trying to haul the rest of her wriggly little self up onto it as well. Eliot reaches down absently to boost up her butt, so she can finish climbing into Julia’s lap and, presumably, absorb some of her sadness. Puppy superpowers totally work like that. “He’s going to send me the spell though, so maybe I can tweak the meta-comp, so one of you could— maybe.”

“Just let us know,” Quentin says, sincerity bleeding out of every pore. Julia nods, and then her eyes are welling up again, and she’s curling up into Q’s side, head on his chest while he wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” Eliot says softly, hand coming up off Quentin’s thigh so he can reach out for Julia’s, hold her slim hand in his. “Self-care day?”

She lets out a wet laugh. “What’s that even mean anymore?”

“Expensive face masks and feel-good tv, and Q makes us scones later.”

“Oh he does, does he?” Quentin asks, amused, but Julia’s smiling, at least, squeezing Eliot’s fingers tightly in hers. 

The scones are delicious, light, buttery, a little sharp with lemon zest. They end up going through the whole third season of Queer Eye and three of Eliot’s best facemasks, but hey— what’s that but an excuse to online shop for more skincare products, really? 

__

And then suddenly it’s May before Eliot even has a chance to notice. 

Everything feels molasses slow and suspended, a not-quite-real sense that’s off-putting at best and downright disturbing at worst. Quentin’s having a harder time managing, as time drags on, clinging desperately to Lady Desdamona and her routine, just to make himself keep some semblance of one. Still, they sleep late more than they should. It’s harder for Eliot to drag himself out of bed than it should be, if the dog’s content to sleep, and Q’s warm and snuggly at his side. Some mornings they just— give it a pass, and say in bed, awake but lazy about it, tangled together and holding on to each other because what else can they do?

One such morning, Eliot gets up around sunrise (ungodly early now that summer’s creeping up on them) to let Des out onto the pee-pad on the porch. He stands by the railing, looking down on the unnatural calm and quiet of a Manhattan under quarantine, and feels the wrongness of it crawling up his spine until Dessy’s done her business. Then he crawls back into bed because fuck it— it’s either go back to bed or have a glass of whiskey for breakfast, and one of those is definitely the lesser of two evils.

Quentin’s stirs sleepily as Eliot sheds his robe and crawls back under the covers— the AC is running in the condo and even though Q’s gone back to sleeping in boxers and a t-shirt, he still puts out heat like a furnace. Eliot doesn’t really mind though, the warmth of the bed welcoming after standing out in the breeze of the high-rise. Dessy bounces her way up the little squishy doggy stairs at the end of the bed (an early quarantine online shopping purchase, bought despite Eliot protests about how deeply unsexy it was to have miniature stairs at the foot of your bed) to curl up in a little disk at their feet. Q shifts towards him a little, as Eliot settles down in the bed, warm and wriggly and sleepy-sweet, making Eliot’s heart throb in his chest.

"Happy one year," Quentin murmurs, sleep-rough and low, and he's just... So beautiful, in the early morning light that Eliot has to touch him, reach out and trace the line of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone. The dark smudge of his eyelashes fan out over his cheek with every lazy blink, god, it’s _unreal_ that he looks like this without even trying.

"One year?" Eliot wonders absently, thumb brushing against the pretty pink curve of Quentin's lower lip. Q smiles, reflexive, and Eliot just has to kiss him, has to. _Hand to god, sir, I had to do it_ , _had to press my mouth right there against his smile, it’s my favorite thing._

"One year Monsterless," Quentin replies, once he has his mouth back. "And boyfriended."

"Fuck," Eliot swears, a cold splash of guilt in his stomach dropping into his stomach like an ice cube. "I missed our anniversary."

"I don't think we really have an anniversary," Quentin muses, rolling over off his side until he's on his stomach, half on the bed and half on Eliot. "We just kind of _were_ again. And then it was all... meds, dog, PT, learn to be people again, all of that."

"There was a conversation," Eliot murmurs, sliding his fingers into Quentin’s hair. Q hums, and Eliot's treated to an up close and personal view of how pretty his eyelashes are when they flutter closed. "There was definitely a second first kiss."

"Do you remember what date that was? Because I was practically catatonic, El."

"No," Eliot admits, because he hadn't been much better, disoriented and out of place post-possession, suddenly having missed almost a year of his life. It seems like he’s being left off the hook a little bit, but honestly— time is such a nebulous and hard to grasp concept these days, even if there was a particular date, he probably would have missed it anyway. He’s barely been aware of what the date is since the middle of March. "I didn't care about much beyond making sure you didn't go far enough away that I couldn't touch you."

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, dimpling sweetly. “I was pretty happy to not let you out of my sight.”

"Well, happy one year, then, Baby Q. I love you." Then, because... Just because it's easier to say than it was a year go, doesn't mean the insecurities are gone: "Having second thoughts yet?"

"Yeah, thinking I probably should have run off with Penny," Quentin sighs, dramatic, teasing, in the way that makes Eliot's stomach bubble happily. Then he goes serious, earnest and calm, reaching to lace their fingers together over Eliot's chest. "I'm never going to have second thoughts about you."

Eliot swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat. “Even after three months of being stuck in a condo with me?”

“What’s three months compared to 50 years?” Quentin mutters sleepily, turning his face in to snuggle down against Eliot’s chest, a very clear communication of _I’m going back to sleep now_. Chuckling, Eliot’s got no choice but to wrap his arms around Quentin’s shoulders and tangle their legs together and go back to sleep himself.

Honestly, no choice at all. 

___

That doesn’t mean, now that the fact has been called to his attention, that Eliot’s going to let the idea of an anniversary celebration _go_. It also is, very honestly, the first one-year anniversary of Eliot’s life. Relationships, if they even happened, tended to implode pretty spectacularly for Eliot, and rarely lasted more than a month or two. Certainly not a year, with no sign of losing steam, thank god. Margo, probably, would be the longest, and well— that’s a whole other complicated story, isn’t it.

“I mean, it’s mine too, if we’re not counting, you know,” Quentin waves his hand, a general all-encompassing gesture towards the mosaic, when Eliot points this out. “—all the rest of it.” They’re sitting out on the balcony, Quentin scrunched up in a patio chair, bare feet tucked under him with the dog in his lap. His hair keeps getting caught in the warm spring breeze. 

“I usually do count all the rest of it,” Eliot says with a sigh, settling back in his own patio chair. It’s warm enough for linen pants today, and he’s enjoying it immensely, the little pleasures of warm sunlight and light clothes, spiked lemonade sweating in his hand and Q’s cute furry toes wiggling in the open air. “But for this, it seems worth celebration, somehow? I just don’t really know how we can do that, when we can’t leave the house, and there’s nowhere to go even if we could.”

Quentin hums, looking out thoughtfully over the landscape. “I was thinking about it, after Valentine’s Day. I wanted to do something for you, this time. I’d thought maybe a play?”

“Really?” There’s a tone of touched surprise Eliot can hear in his own voice, which is probably giving too much away, but Quentin just rolls his head over towards Eliot, sad little smile on his face as he scritches his fingers along Dessy’s sides. 

“Yeah. I didn’t really get far enough to actually pick a specific one before the world ended, though.”

It shouldn’t be funny, when they’ve actually seen the world come close actually ending before, but— it still feels like it, though, doesn’t it? “That would have been fun. I miss theater.”

“I know,” Quentin hums, a little crease from at the edge of his mouth. “The second part of the gift was that you’d have gotten to dress me.”

“I feel like you’re developing a complex about this,” Eliot hedges, and Quentin laughs, bright and braying, loud enough that Des wiggles around to look at him, whining to lick his face. “Just restating the fact that I don’t actually care what you wear, as long as you're comfortable.”

“I know,” Quentin assures him, tilting his face back to avoid getting doggy tongue in his mouth. “It is fun to pretend that I’m not an awkward blob of dysfunction vibrating inside a human body, occasionally, though.” 

Well. Eliot still feels like that, sometimes, even when he is dressed well, but— the armor definitely helps. “I’ll play pretend with you anytime, Baby Q.”

The smile Quentin gives in response is a little wan, and he lapses into silence, looking back out over the edge of the balcony. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Because they _can’t_ really pretend everything is normal now, not when it’s so very wrong in so many ways. Everything Eliot would love to do to celebrate; dinner, night on the town, drag Q out to a gay club, fucking _Pride_ even, all of that... it’s out of their reach. Everything is out of their reach. He can’t even throw a _party_ , not really, when the only other person they’re allowed to see or be around is Julia.

And he certainly can’t do anything about the things that really matter. He can’t make Quentin’s depression leave him alone. He can’t make his relationship with his mom any less fraught. He can’t give Quentin purpose, or meaning or anything else. He can’t fucking— open the portal to Fillory, and run into Margo’s waiting arms. Honestly, he can’t even pretend to himself that she’d be waiting for him if he could; can’t pretend there’s not a slowly thickening wall springing up between them, shaped like _Quentin_ and _Josh_ and _Fillory_ and _Earth_. He can’t do _anything_ that matters, because he’s stuck in this _fucking condo–_

So he finishes his boozy lemonade, instead, and then goes to find some more. He tries not to feel guilty, when Quentin follows him inside just in time to find Eliot standing by the freezer with vodka in his hand. But he does, and if the guilt’s happening, then, well—

“Last one,” he says, aloud, and Quentin gives him a curious look.

“You know I’m not counting your drinks, right?” 

“Maybe you should be,” Eliot mutters under his breath, then sighs. Setting the vodka down, he leans back against the counter, scraping the backs of his knuckles over his closed eyes. “Sorry.”

He feels more than sees Quentin step into his space. Warm hands on his sides, Quentin’s fingers curl into the fabric of his vest, a soft “Hey,” then, Quentin’s breath across his neck “Talk to me?”

“I’m fine,” Eliot sighs, and he actually means it. He’s not trying to be totally sober, because the _cold turkey_ approach never really worked well for him, did it? And, hey, it’s been a year since he took anything harder than some shared hits of Josh’s weed, so— progress, right? “I’m honestly fine, Q. Just— frustrated.”

“With me?” 

Eliot winces. “No, sweetheart, just with— fucking life. It’s fine. I’m fine.” Quentin hums, tipping his chin forward until the point of it digs into Eliot’s sternum. It makes eye contact virtually impossible, so Eliot doesn’t try, just rests his cheek against Quentin’s temple. “I guess I don’t... love being stuck in one place, is the thing. It kind of feels like the happy place felt. Trapped.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes out, hands tightening on Eliot’s waist. “Fuck, El, I didn’t even think— You can do more of the shopping, maybe? Or we can dig into personal wards more, so you can help Julia? Penny might be able to mirror us books on that, or. Well, I doubt he’ll find much, otherwise he wouldn’t be stuck there, but Julia’s good at adapting spells, maybe we can write something?”

“Maybe don’t,” Eliot says, shakily, on an exhale, “— try to problem-solve this? I’m just. Feeling a thing, maybe I just need to feel it.”

Quentin huffs out a laugh, pulling back so they can look at each other. “Historically, not something I’m great at. But I’ll try.”

Reaching up, Eliot brushes the pad of his thumb against the edge of Quentin’s cheekbone, giving him a weak smile. Q leans into the touch automatically, and Eliot just— wants to kiss him, so he does. A soft _hello_ kind of kiss, and then another, more lingering, sweeter. Q’s jaw fits just right in his palm, Q’s arms snaking around his waist to clasp at his lower back, and then wander very pointedly, down to squeeze his ass.

Giggling, Eliot breaks away, nuzzling their noses together. “Cheeky.”

“Mhm,” Quentin hums in agreement, squeezing very pointedly, and Eliot laughs, feeling a release of tension crack somewhere deep in his chest. “C’mon, help me drink this, will you? I don’t need all of it.”

“Twist my arm,” Quentin sighed, tugging Eliot back, not towards the balcony, but the living room couch. And well, no harm in some midday cuddles when you had literally nothing else to be doing, right?

They watch about an episode and a half of Star Trek: Voyager before Quentin falls asleep with his face on a pillow in Eliot’s lap. Absently, Eliot flicks to Chopped and lets it run in the background, fingers sliding absently through Quentin’s hair as he stares at the half-drunk glass of spiked lemonade, sweating onto a coaster on the table.

It’s not exactly like the happy place, not really— there are other human beings moving around this condo with him. Just because he feels like he knows Q and Julia well enough to predict their reactions to things, after a year of living together, it’s not nearly the same experience as living with only memories. Repeating, on loop in his head, moments he felt something akin to happiness. There’s no forced sense of relaxation or merriment here, no one pretending they’re doing anything other than just holding on.

But the feeling of being trapped, the omnipresent invisible threat waiting to destroy Eliot from the inside out should he venture out of this little bubble of imagined safety— all of that feels incredibly, and disturbingly, familiar. Blinking, staring at nothing while the TV plays in the background, Eliot can see, behind his eyes—

_His own reflection in glass/mirrors/cars/windows, messy and unkempt, dark circles under his eyes as his body detoxed from the fucking— pills—_

or—

_The squish yielding ooze of plunging his fist inside a living body and grasping something hard and cold and ancient and_ mine—

or—

_His own hands, tightening, tightening, tightening down on Quentin’s throat, while Quentin stared back at him definitely, words just barely audible escapring between Eliot’s tightening fingers. “Do it. I’m too tired to care anymore.”_

A sharp whine-bark from the ground makes Eliot blink, and he hadn’t even— He hadn’t noticed, had he, that he’d stopped breathing, until he’s dragging air back into his lungs. Dessy’s standing at the edge of the couch, front paws on his knee. 

“Hush, baby girl.” She yips when he scoops her up, holding her to his chest, a warm little fuzzy weight hell-bent on licking his face. It’s enough to wake Q up, shifting with a groan in Eliot’s lap.

“‘S happening?” he slurs, and looking up first to the TV then to Eliot.

“Emotional support dog doing her job, that’s all,” Eliot promises, shifting Dessy over so he can drop her down on the couch next to Q’s body, in the free empty space left by the curve of his stomach. She parks her little butt down, ears all perked up towards Eliot even as Quentin pets at her sleepily.

“You okay?” He asks, squinting up at Eliot, who smiles weaky.

“Are any of us? Really?”

Q blinks those big sleepy brown eyes at him, before turning and mashing his face onto the pillow propped up on Eliot’s thigh. A muffled noise emerges from the pillow moments later.

“I can’t hear you, sweet boy,” Eliot murmurs, hooking a finger through Quentin’s hair, and tucking it back behind his ear. 

Groaning theatrically, Q shifts enough so that he’s not speaking directly into the pillow anymore. “I can’t tell where the line is anymore.”

“The line?”

“The, you know, the line between like— letting myself take it easy because my anxiety’s really bad, and sleeping all day because I’m super fucking depressed. Or like— not showering because I can’t go anywhere anyway, and not showering because I don’t give a shit anymore. I don’t know where the line is. I feel like—” he cuts off with a sigh, brown eyes welling up, and Eliot’s heart aches, like it always does when he’s stuck watching Quentin struggle and is unable to help.

“It’s okay,” he mutters, sliding his hand up the back of Quentin’s arm, into the loose sleeve of his t-shirt so he can rub at the tense muscle of Quentin’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Baby Q, you can talk to me.”

“I just—” Quentin starts, then cuts himself off, face crumpling a little. “I feel like I keep dragging you through the same shit. It’s the _same shit_ , every time, and I— I was _doing better_ , El. And then Christmas, and— after, and— I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t feel _useful_ anymore, I don’t have any way to help and I’m just a fucking _burden_ on you, and I can’t be— _helpful_ to you, when you’re going through your own shit. I can’t be what you need me to be, what makes— makes you love me.”

“Baby, you being you is what makes me love you.” Quentin’s face wrinkles up, his fucking adorable little ski-slope nose scrunching, and— “I know exactly who you are, Quentin. I _know_ , okay? I love you.”

“I love you too,” Quentin whispers, clogged sounding through his tears. “Are you really okay?”

“I—” Eliot starts, then stalls out, looking at the puppy, up at the TV, out at the balcony door. Finally, he looks back down to Q. “Remember how we talked about starting therapy?” Quentin nods mutely. “Maybe we should actually do that. You know... both of us.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly, eyes going a little unfocused. “That’s gonna suck.”

“I hear it’s helpful,” Eliot points out, quietly amused. “That’s what they tell me anyway.”

The grumpy face Q makes in response to that is really cute, if not exactly encouraging. 

___

It’s not in Eliot’s nature to ignore an occasion, though, regardless of the complicating circumstances. It takes some googling, maybe a bit of scheming, definitely some spell research and practice, but he’s going to make an anniversary celebration happen one way or another. The most complicated bit of it is the timing, convincing Quentin to walk Des down to the actual dog park, getting him out of the condo long enough to get the rest set up. 

Normally, Eliot would recruit Julia in his quest, but well— it feels weird, asking her to help with this when she’s so actively miserable. But then, that’s its own kind of help, isn’t it? It’s easier to convince Q to make the trip when Eliot frames it as “get Julia out of the condo and doing something fun,” like she hasn’t been the only one of them actually doing anything interesting for months now. 

Still, it works, because Q is better at doing stuff for other people than he is for himself. Puppy on a leash and wearing the masks Eliot’s sewn from cannibalized bedsheets (stolen from the room that would belong to the Fillory triumvirate— not like they’re going to need it any time soon), they bid Eliot farewell in late afternoon. He pleads knee pain to get out of going along, which is maybe shitty, but sue him, surprises are virtually impossible when you’re trapped in a building together. The spellwork is the hardest part, and leaves him feeling kind of drained— it might be physical magic, but it’s about as far away from telekinesis as you can get without switching disciplines. 

No time for a nap, though, not when there’s still a meal to pick up. So Eliot dons his own mask, and ventures out into the world of curbside pickup. He beats Q and Julia home with enough time to spread the food out on the balcony table (also an online purchase, because it turns out being stuck in your apartment means wanting to be outside literally as much as you can handle with the heat) and snapping a chilling charm across everything to keep it cold. Setting some candles floating up around the edges of the balcony, Eliot pauses to admire the ambiance, smiling a little to himself. Fitting; a glow evocative of fire light, of ever-burning torches— perfect. 

Then there’s just enough time to shower and change out of the shirt he sweated through, before Julia and Q make it back from the dog park. Q’s bent over unhooking Dessy’s leash when Eliot emerges from the bedroom, sneakers kicked off in the general direction of the pile of shoes by the door. Sometimes that’s infuriating, Quentin’s inability to understand that just because _he_ doesn’t mind tripping on his shoes— but right now it’s just endearing, somehow. Eliot wanders over towards him as he straightens up, leash in hand as below them, Dessy shakes her whole little self, tags jingling. 

“Hey,” Quentin murmurs, distracted, pushing up his sock-clad toes to nuzzle at Eliot’s face until Eliot kisses him, half-fighting a laugh and so, so fond. Then he draws back, squinting at Eliot suspiciously. “Are you wearing a different shirt than when we left? I remember more... maroon.”

The vest had been maroon, actually, the shirt a subtly patterned light grey, but who was counting? The fact that the overall color scheme had been absorbed at all was honestly impressive. “I took a shower,” he says with a shrug, leaning down to kiss at Quentin’s sweet full lower lip, so fucking lovely. “You should too.”

“Are you saying I smell like dog park?”

“Only a very little bit.”

Quentin opens his mouth to respond, and then visibly catches sight of the balcony over Eliot’s shoulder, with it’s glowing floating candles. “What–” he starts, twisting a little to see around Eliot, who gently shifts to block him.

“Go shower,” he repeats, completely unable to keep the smile off his face.

“Getting the feeling I should put on a button up,” Q responds wrly, expressive eyebrows writing his amusement all over his face.

“Just don’t come out naked,” Eliot teases, bending just enough to kiss the tip of his nose. Fingers curling into the edges of Quentin’s t-shirt, he tugs on it a little, says “I’m not ready to share you with all of Manhattan yet.”

It’s not until Quentin disappears into their room that Eliot becomes really aware of Julia watching them. She’s perched on the staircase, Dessy panting excessively at her side, tongue lolling out as Julia’s fingers scritch her cute floppy ears. There’s a wistful kind of look on her face that shutters away when Eliot looks over at her, hidden behind a brittle smile.

“This is like the reverse of undergrad, Q third-wheeling with me and James.” Eliot thinks, privately, that there’s probably significantly less pining involved this time, but keeps that to himself. Julia’s still speaking anyway. “I’m guessing I’ll be spending most of the night upstairs?”

A little chagrined, Eliot nods. “There’s food for you in the fridge,” he offers, because he’s not _that_ much of an asshole. “And we’ll probably be out on the balcony, so. Probably you can do whatever you want inside.”

“No, I can give you guys space,” Julia says, smiling a little sadly. “Sorry I’ve been such a drag—”

“None of that,” Eliot cuts her off, stepping forward to press a kiss to her forehead. It’s almost a surprise when she hugs him, arms wrapping around his waist, but it really shouldn’t be. After all, they’re a year in, too, aren’t they? Eliot and his not-quite-sister. “Team Penthouse, remember?”

Her eyes are a little wet when she pulls away, and Eliot makes a mental note: hug Julia more. “Thanks for getting me dinner, El.”

A little warm glow lights in the base of his sternum at the nickname, that happy little spark like a burst of magic, at the feeling of— just doing right by the people he loves. “Of course.” 

The feeling persists. It lingers under his skin while he putters around the living room, listening to the sounds of the pipes gurgling, the barely distinguishable hiss of the water in the shower. Dessy flops out on the cool tile of the kitchen, and he bends down to rub her side, careful of the ever-present twinge in his knee, hip, back, what-have-you. It’s not too bad today, and god knows he’d like to keep it that way. Her tail thumps lazily on the floor, too wrung out from the afternoon of play to do much but allow herself to be admired as is befitting a Lady of her station.

“She’s gonna be out cold in like 10 minutes.”

Glancing over, Eliot watches with a smile as Quentin emerges from the bedroom, his hair hanging in damp curtains, brushing against the collar of his dark blue shirt. He’s, _god_ , he’s so lovely, he looks like a fucking dream, wearing the fitted gray toursers Eliot loves so much. The knowing little half-grin on his face says it’s intentional, that Eliot has been well and truly played, and oh, happily so. “Good,” he says, the word turning into a groan half-way as he straightens his protesting body up. “Jesus. I’m ancient.”

“Mmm, nearly 80, really.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot sighs, but— he doesn’t feel it, in this moment, not really, not looking into Quentin’s face. He feels young. “Shall we eat?”

The sun’s just starting to set as they make their way out onto the balcony. Not that they’re much to see of a sunset, surrounded on every side by still Manhattan high-rises, but it still works well with the candles, making everything feel radiant and warm.

“I can’t believe you did all this in an afternoon,” Quentin says softly, proving that he never truly appreciated Eliot’s ability to throw a party while he surveys the spread on their patio table. “I don’t even know what half this stuff is.”

“It’s sushi, Q.”

The eyeroll that earns him is one for the scrapbooks. “Yeah, no shit, I’m not that hopeless. I just usually get, you know... a California roll.”

Eliot does, in fact, know this. They’ve been eating most meals together for over a year. If Quentin weren’t so fucking adorably, beguilingly cute in his culinary naïveté, Eliot might even be annoyed about it. But instead it kind of makes him want to hand-feed Quentin little bites of fish and rice, while like... cooing and stroking his hair. He’ll probably need to do some self-reflection on that, at some point. “We’re broadening your horizons,” he says, instead which, predictably, gets him another eyeroll, but the kind that harbors a little secret smile. Quentin sits, anyway, looking curiously at the food on offer.

It’s a lovely meal. Different than it would have been at the sushi bar, but— the privacy is nice, to be able to talk and laugh together without concern for other diners. Gamely, Q tries everything, face scrunching up in distaste at the salmon roe. He likes the unagi though, and ends up eating most of it himself. There’s sake to sip, and that takes them through the rest of the sunset, until the false-dark of the city settles around them, broken by their candles, and the glow from inside the penthouse.

“This was nice,” Quentin admits, leaning back with his elbows on the arms of his porch chair, hands holding the sake cup to rest on his stomach. His feet nudge against Eliot’s shins as they find the rung of Eliot’s chair, relaxed and casual. 

“Oh, there’s a part two,” Eliot promises, smirking a little at Quentin’s raised eyebrow.

“Like, a part two that happens out here, or— in there?”

“Well. I wouldn’t want to presume.” That makes Quentin laugh, in keeping with the pleasant flush of his cheeks. “But that would probably be part three, then.”

“I’m intrigued,” Quentin murmurs, the corners of his eyes creasing with a smile, and suddenly Eliot can’t help but lever himself up to stand, so he can hover, bend down to steal a kiss. It’s light, shallow, because Q can’t seem to stop smiling, but Eliot cups his cheek anyway, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Q hums happily, still smiling with his eyes when Eliot pulls back. “Sure you don’t want to skip to part three?”

“Hush, you,” Eliot scolds as he straightens up, holding out his hand for Quentin to take. He does, gamely letting himself be hauled up and out of his chair, over to where the bench that goes with their cheap IKEA patio set has been set up facing the blank side of the building.

Eyes narrowed, Quentin looks from the bench to the blank wall and back Eliot. “Why are we Blair Witch-ing it?”

“Nerd,” Eliot accuses, with absolutely no heat at all, nudging Quentin to sit on the bench. "Do you know Gorshko's Multispectral Refraction?" 

"Can't say I do.”

"It's a phosphomancy spell. Margo used to call it a magical overhead projector, and that's not entirely wrong, but the image you're projecting and magnifying can be anywhere. Like, on my phone, in the bedroom."

"Clever," Quentin allows, tipping his head a little. "So what are we refracting?" 

Instead of answering, Eliot winks, going through the motions of a couple showy tuts, until a movie flickers to life against the wall, magically projected. Settling down on the bench next to Q, who makes a little impressed hum seemingly in spite of himself, Eliot slides his arm around Quentin. They fall together like they're pulled by gravity, Quentin’s cheek falling on the ball of Eliot’s shoulder. 

“What are we watching?” Q asks, sotto voice, like they’re in a theater and liable to get yelled at.

“A Knight’s Tale.”

“Oh, haven’t seen this in a while.” He’s silent for a beat, and Eliot waits for it, knows it’s coming, smiling to himself until Quentin says, “You know this is absolutely nothing like the original Chaucer—”

“Shut up and watch Heath Ledger be hot, Q,” Eliot says fondly, earning himself a grumble and a pinch on the thigh. But Quentin stays snuggled in close, so he can’t be too grumpy about it. 

Despite what one might think, Eliot actually hadn’t _planned_ on getting distracted partway through the movie. Sue him, neither of them have been feeling particularly horny the last couple— months, honestly. So he’s not quite prepared for the way that Quentin’s hand, sliding warmly to rest on his upper thigh, sends a zing of heat through his core.

Twisting around, a little, just enough that he can look down at Quentin without his back screaming in protest, Eliot finds Quentin’s face already tipped towards him. It’s barely a motion at all for Q to push up, kissing warmly at Eliot’s mouth, sweet, sucking, coaxing kisses, until Eliot’s cupping the back of his neck, sliding his tongue into the inviting heat of Q’s mouth. The hand on his thigh rubs against the fabric of his trousers, sliding dangerously high up the inseam as Quentin shamelessly sucks on his tongue. 

He’s pleasantly pinked up when Eliot pulls back, that sweet flush that Eliot knows, knows _intimately_ , spreads down across the top of his chest. “Good anniversary date,” Quentin mutters, his breath brushing out hot against Eliot’s kiss-sensitive lips.

“Not exactly a play at the Schubert,” Eliot says, strangled.

“We couldn’t do this at the Schubert.” The words are accompanied by Quentin’s hand giving up all pretense, sliding up to massage gently at Eliot’s crotch, rolling gently over his soft cock and balls through the fabric. Eliot drags in a breath, eyes fluttering shut at the pleasant touch, the warm spread of pleasure through his body. God, it’s been so long.

“Mmm, not unless we were aiming to get kicked out.” Quentin’s eyes flash hot and embarrassed, and Eliot can’t help but grin.

“Glad you like the date. Wanna bail on it?”

“You went to all this trouble,” Quentin protests, sounding genuinely morose like he’s not still giving Eliot half a handie out here on the balcony. Q’s warm brown eyes flicker around the balcony, looking at floating the candles and the remnants of their dinner, the movie still playing on the wall. Frown lines crease his forehead, and suddenly Eliot has never cared less about the energy he’s put into an evening. It doesn’t matter. It’s served its purpose.

“It’s just magic, Baby Q. We can do it anytime.”

They pump the brakes long enough to bring the dishes in and stack them on the counter, because the downside to being an adult is apparently that if you leave food on the balcony of your home, you then have to deal with getting the pigeons to leave you alone. Lady Des is conked out unconscious in her bed, but Quentin stops long enough to refill her water dish and tip some kibbles into her bowl. The fact that she doesn’t so much as stir at the sound of the bowl clanking with food shows just how hard they ran her down. Eliot leans back with his arms on the counter, watching Quentin move, feeling— so fucking fond he can barely stand it.

“Okay,” Quentin breathes out, standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on his little hips in a very business like way, surveying the kitchen.

“Are we allowed to bang now?” Eliot asks, barely suppressing a giggle when Quentin glares at him. 

“Keep being a shit and I might change my mind,” he threatens pointlessly, because he’s also already unbuttoning his shirt, walking backwards toward the bedroom. Eliot follows him, helplessly charmed.

Q’s halfway out of his shirt by the time that Eliot’s got the bedroom door closed, the pale skin on his shoulders contrasting the dark blue fabric in a truly delicious way. Humming a little, Eliot steps up to him, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of his trousers, tugging him in hips-first until he’s kissably close, warm and sweet and open. They pass a good couple minutes like that, making out like they’re losing time, long enough for Eliot to get himself two handfuls of ass in those _fucking wonderful_ pants, and for Quentin to divest him of his waistcoat, tie fluttering to the floor not long after. Quentin’s pushing up on his toes for the kiss, and god, fuck— It probably shouldn’t _still_ , after a _year_ , make Eliot so hot, that Quentin’s— small and eager and _Eliot’s_. 

“Baby,” he breathes, getting a hand into Quentin’s hair to tip his head back, so Eliot can suck at his neck, the spot near his ear that makes him punch out a half-moan, every time. “God, baby, get your pants off.”

A bright burst of laughter, and Quentin’s ducking away, a little snark of, “Yes, Sir,” which nonetheless manages to be sort of blindingly erotic. Eliot allows himself a moment to just blank out, imagine backing Quentin down onto the bed, licking his ass until he’s sobbing, _begging_ , to be allowed to come _—_ And then shakes himself out of it, shucking his own shirt and trousers as Quentin wriggles out of his pants and boxers all in one go.

Then Quentin’s scooping to pick up Eliot’s tie, bending at the waist which— hmm, yes, sends of shock of anticipatory arousal pulsing down Eliot’s front, like a rush of blood making his dick hard, because‚ just that fucking. Tight cute little ass, all hairy and secret, Eliot’s fucking _mouth waters_ , like this is the first time he’s ever gotten tacit permission to put some part of his body inside Quentin Coldwater, instead of probably approaching the second hundreth.

But then Quentin turns around, tie sliding loosely in his hand, and— He wouldn’t even have to ask, is the thing. They’ve had enough sex for Eliot to know exactly what he wants without being asked. Still, he does, he does ask, steps up close and holds out the fabric and says, “Tie me up?” all breathless then, “I want to ride you, and I want you to tie me up, can we do that?”

“Yes,” Eliot agrees, happily shelving all his ass-eating fantasies for a rainy day, taking the tie out of Quentin’s hand and then bending down to kiss him, god, _sweet boy_. “Yeah, god, Q, of course.”

Getting situated is kind of complicated, but would probably be much more so if Eliot weren’t telekinetic. But he is, so he can grab the tie he left on the dresser earlier and loop both through the headboard, then settle against the pillows himself. Quentin climbs up into his lap awkwardly, all uncoordinated limbs, but then Eliot has a lapful of wriggly nerd. “Leg okay?” Quentin asks, like he’s not hard against Eliot’s stomach, because he’s— such a good partner, really. Eliot swallows against the swell of emotion and nods. 

“Yeah, I’m good, baby. Put your wrists through the loops?” Quentin does, eager, and Eliot can feel it on the edges of where his telekinesis is wound around the fabric, the slide of Quentin’s sturdy wrists into the waiting loops. It’s barely a thought at all to tighten them down, until the tension against Quentin’s skin feels right. “Too loose? Too tight?” he checks anyway, half to watch the hot little flush that spreads across Quentin’s face as he tugs on the bindings, finds himself unable to move.

“God— No, it’s good.” Then he giggles a little, eyes bright and cheeks pink. “It’s really good.”

Humming, Eliot slides his hands up and down Quentin’s sides, palms flat to avoid tickling, but if the way Quentin squirms is any indicator he’s aware how vulnerable he is to Eliot’s hands right now. If the wet smears against Eliot’s stomach are any indication, he likes it. Thoughtfully, Eliot slides his palms forward until he can thumb at the stiff buds of Quentin’s nipples, making his whole body jerk with a soft gasp, head rolling back with— _hm_ , yes _,_ the pale column of his neck on display. It’s barely a stretch at all to lean forward and fit his mouth right there, against the fluttering pulse in Quentin’s neck, kiss and lick and suck until Quentin’s groaning, rocking between the press of Eliot’s dick against his ass and grinding his own cock against Eliot’s stomach. 

“Do the spell,” Q gasps, voice vibrating against Eliot’s lips, rocking— and _god_ , Eliot could probably get off like this, just rubbing against the cleft of Quentin’s ass, but fuck if the idea of being able to just— bury himself to the hilt, just fuck up all the way up inside— isn’t making his dick leak.

“Are you sure?” Palms flat, Eliot drags his hands down across Quentin’s abdomen, the back to grip at his cheeks, brush the tips of his fingers inwards to pet, lightly, just gently, over the fluttering, clenching muscles of Q’s hole. “I can finger you.” 

“I don’t want to wait,” Quentin gasped, tugging at the ties holding his wrists to the headboard. Eliot shushes him with a kiss, then leans back enough to get his hands free, to do the motion of the tuts against Q’s abdomen. Quentin groans, not with arousal but discomfort, and Eliot reaches forward to rub his hand soothingly over the span of muscles below Quentin’s navel, rubbing away the cramp.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, up close against Quentin’s mouth, but Q just shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he pants, hips moving a little against Eliot’s lap. “It passes. God, El, get your dick in me before I lose my mind.” The words are followed by a tug on the ties, the definition of Quentin’s arms standing out as he tests the resistance again, like he can pull free and just take what he wants himself. He can’t, but luckily what he wants is what Eliot wants too. 

Positioned as they are, it’s easy enough for Eliot to get his hand around the base of his own cock and guide it into place, the head rubbing against the loose, magically open, spell-wet gape of Quentin’s hole. It’s— god, it’s so easy, for Quentin to gasp and then go boneless, sinking, just— _down_ , it a spine-melting slide that makes Eliot feel shaky, shivery, fine tremors in all his muscles as Quentin bottoms out with a soft “ _Oh fuck!”_

Tiny little rocking motions in Quentin’s hips right away, like he can’t— like he can’t fucking hold still long enough to get used to the feeling, just has to move on it, bounce on it, right away. It punches Eliot’s breath out, makes him grab on to Quentin’s hips tightly, because, fuck— Sitting like he is, Eliot doesn’t really have the leverage to move himself. All he can do is rock a little, and get a hold of Quentin, try to hold on as Q braces himself on his knees and drags upward, a long slide that sends a wave of pleasure crashing through Eliot’s body, before dropping down again with a sharp little grunt and a moan.

“Tip back a little,” Eliot murmurs, bracing his hand against the small of Quentin’s back, reaching out with telekinesis just to check the stability of the ties as Quentin does as he’s told, trusting more of his weight to them. The angle is better, and on the next slide Quentin shouts, dick jerking visible with a wad of pre-come as Eliot slides against his prostate. 

“That’s it,” Eliot soothes, rocking a little as much as he can, but Quentin’s got a rhythm now, tiny little circles of his hips that are— fucking driving Eliot insane honestly, not enough of a deep drag to really do more than wind him up and up and up. His balls are fucking _aching_ with the urge to _thrust_ , to _fuck_ , to bury himself deep inside, again and again and again, animal and hungry. But this is very clearly working for Q, the tight, tiny circles which must be just— dragging the head go Eliot’s cock over his prostate again and again, god he’s so leaky, so messy, his pretty pink cock is so _wet—_ Eliot jerks on a grunt, body trying to move on instinct through a sharp pulse of pleasure, and Quentin gasps in response, hands tugging futily on the ties.

“Oh– _oh fuck_ , El,” he moans eyes sliding shut, head tipped back, gasping— his pretty pink mouth all open and wet, fuck. Eliot wants to slide his fingers into that open heat, let Q suck— he makes the prettiest fucking noises when his mouth his full. Instead Eliot's hand curves around the column of Quentin’s throat, tucking up under his jaw, exposed with his head thrown back in pleasure. Exactly how Quentin likes to be touched, held, _kept safe_ , and Eliot can give it to him, can—

_— see his own hands tightening, tightening, tightening on the span of Quentin’s throat. Not carefully avoiding his windpipe but crushing it, cutting off his air, his Adam's apple pressed into Eliot’s palm as he gasps, quiet, “Do it. I’m too tired—”_

“El?” Eliot blinks up at Quentin’s face. Long hair, longer than— and looking at Eliot calmly, steadily, on sure footing. Eliot’s hands fly off his skin in a flash, but he doesn’t flinch. “Can you let my hands free?”

It’s a mere flick of telekinesis to do so. Then Quentin’s hands are loose, sliding across Eliot’s bare chest and up his neck, sinking into his curls. “Did I—”

“You just looked scared for a second there,” Quentin murmurs, still, not moving with, Jesus, Eliot’s _whole cock_ seated inside him. Measured, Quentin breathes, “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Eliot gets out, and it’s true, even if it sounds half like a sob. He wants to be inside Quentin more than fucking— _anything_ , wants to crawl into his chest and make a home in his skin and sinew. Shuddering, shaky, he lets Quentin’s hands guide his head forward until his face is resting against Quentin’s shoulder, nose against the dip of his collarbone. Breathing in, everything smells like Quentin’s bodywash and their laundry soap, a little like sweat in the good clean way. Smells like home. With shaky hands, he cups Q’s waist, safe there, no harm to do there, then slides back, back to get a hold of his ass as Quentin starts to move again.

“I got you,” Quentin murmurs, and it’s not— it’s not what Q wanted, it’s not _surrender_ , but. It’s them, together. Maybe that’s enough. 

There’s nothing left to say. Eliot, who’s quite honestly always prided himself on his ability to dirty talk himself through any sexual situation, just can’t— he just can’t, can’t do anything but pet his hands over the small of Quentin’s back, hold onto him, cling to him, this miracle of muscle and bone and sinew that is Quentin Coldwater, alive and warm and close, clinging back. His skin tastes salty under Eliot’s lips when he opens his mouth to suck helplessly at Quentin’s collarbones, and he’s still rocking a little, rolling his hips against Eliot’s. Fingernails scratch through Eliot’s curls at the base of his skull, sending little shiver waves down his spine, god— he’s got nothing to offer but to wrap his arms around Quentin’s ribs in a tight hug, clinging, holding on.

“Hey,” Quentin murmurs, where his lips are resting against Eliot’s temple. “Kiss me? Okay? Kiss me, sweetheart.”

Thoughtlessly, Eliot does, seeking Quentin’s mouth, the wet, sweet, soft yielding space of him. Prickles dance along his spine as Quentin tugs at his hair, sharp, grounding, and— that’s maybe not Eliot’s kink, not usually, but it’s nice. It’s nice to feel Quentin’s intention in the action, to feel him— _here_ , present, open, loving— _mine_. 

“Can I,” Eliot starts, stuttering off into a moan as Quentin shifts enough to bite at his jaw, sharp nip of teeth, “Can I put you on your back, baby? I want—”

“Yeah,” Quentin cuts in, tugging at Eliot’s curls, god, Eliot _loves him_. “Yeah, El, fuck me.”

In a perfect world, where Eliot’s as good at sex as he’d like to be, he could just flip them without having to pull out. But this is not a perfect world, and Eliot has a busted back and a bum knee and the fact that he can fuck at all is kind of a miracle that he’d like to preserve, ideally for many years, so— he does have Quentin pull off, if only for long enough to tip him backwards ass-over-tea-kettle backwards towards the foot of the bed. There’s some awkward shuffling, in deference to the parts of Eliot’s body that don’t want to be a body, and then Quentin’s spreading his legs. Which is just— honestly— the best sight, Eliot could keep a running catalogue of all the times he’s had Quentin spread for him and it would never be enough.

It will never, ever be enough.

“Hi,” Eliot murmurs, dumbly, petting his hands up the inside of Quentin’s soft thighs. “Have I told you that I love you today?”

“It was pretty heavily implied,” Quentin promises, earnest, reaching down until he’s touching Eliot’s jaw, chin, cheek. “You know, in the whole anniversary date concept.”

“Implied isn't enough,” Eliot says seriously, shifting up towards Q. Reaching down, he guides his own aching cock back into the welcoming heat of Quentin’s body, shuddering a little at the feeling of sinking to wet, clenching friction. “I need to— _ah, fuck_ — I need to say it.”

“Then say it.” Quentin’s voice is tight, tense, like his fingers on Eliot’s shoulders, like his thighs around Eliot’s hips. Drawing him, inexorably, closer.

“I love you, Q,” Eliot says, feeling it, feeling it down to the bruise-tender core of him. He doesn’t give Q a chance to reply, just steals his mouth in a kiss and begins to move. 

It all kind of unravels after that, lost in the instinctive animal motions of their bodies. It’s been long enough for Eliot to feel on edge already, only the lack of real friction keeping him from losing it embarrassingly fast. Now that he can dig his knees in and _fuck_ , it all builds faster than he can really hold onto it, pleasure pooling in his groin as his balls draw up, drum tight. Helpless, gasping, he gets out a tight, “ _Q—”_

“Yeah, do it,” Quentin gasps, tugging a little at Eliot’s hair, and it’s just enough, a little spark of sensation that tips him over the edge, hips slamming into Quentin’s ass as pleasure crests. It leaves his ears ringing, almost, riding out the wave of it buried to the hilt inside.

Once he has his wits about him again, Eliot pulls out with a groan, matching Quentin’s grunt at the feeling of Eliot’s softening cock slipping out. He’s reaching down for his own dick as soon as he has the space to do so, fist moving over the flushed red skin. Eliot wordlessly whines in protest, shimmying his way down the bed until he can get his mouth around the head of Quentin’s cock, press two fingers up to pet lightly at the rim of his stretched hole.

“God, Eliot, _fuck!”_ Q swears, back arching sharply as Eliot tongues the slit of his dick, working the head while Quentin’s fist moves on the shaft, brushing against Eliot’s mouth with every upward stroke. It’s a weirdly intimate, collaborative experience, working together to get Quentin where he needs to be. Tension builds through his body, and Eliot chases it hungrily, sucking and tonguing and petting until Quentin gasps, startled, and comes all over Eliot’s tongue. 

He pulls off to swallow, and then coughs a little because— listening, a year in means you can stop pretending swallowing is a fun experience, right? Quentin’s watching him, when he straightens up, come-happy and sleepy. Wordlessly, he holds out a hand which Eliot takes, allowing himself to be pulled down the bed and into Q’s side. They tangle together with easy familiarity, until Eliot’s got both arms around Quentin’s shoulders, and Q’s tucked under his chin, legs tangling together.

“I love you too,” Quentin says softly, into the silence between their bodies. “You don’t get to get out of hearing it that easily.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eliot sighs, burying his nose in Quentin’s hair. God, he smells so fucking good, right now, shampoo and a little bit of clean sweat, entirely lacking the funk of going several days without a shower. The air in the room is cold, with the generally very effective AC blasting, but for now he can allow himself to enjoy the afterglow, to sink into the miracle that is being loved by Quentin Coldwater.

Eliot's not aware of falling asleep until he's waking up again, squinting into the dim light of the room as two different phone chims go off. Next to him, Quentin’s groaning, burrowing into Eliot's side like he can ignore the sound if he gets far enough underneath him. 

"Pills," Eliot says, unnecessarily, rubbing his hand along the warm expanse of skin on Quentin’s back. Q grunts, wordless, as the chimes continue, until Eliot smacks lightly at his ass. "C'mon, Q."

"Yeah, yeah," Quentin grouses, but he does roll away, climbing out of bed to go fish his phone out of the pants on the floor. 

He's in the en suite by the time Eliot gets his own phone shut off and follows him, drinking water directly from the tap like the gremlin he is. Eliot nudges him sleepily out of the way to start an abbreviated version of his nightly face wash, enough at least to make sure all the makeup is gone while Q starts brushing his teeth. 

Eliot brushes his own teeth, watching his own face in the mirror as Quentin sinks in against his side, mouth against the point of Eliot’s shoulders. The dark circles under Eliot’s eyes are visible once again, and he always looks— tired, maybe, without the eyeliner. He’d stopped shaving about two weeks into quarantine, only to find he actually liked having a beard, when he took the time to shape and maintain it. 

Quentin, who’s personal grooming habits will never change for gods nor man, is scratching his semi-permanent 3-days growth against the skin of Eliot’s shoulder when Eliot meets his eyes in the mirror. “You okay?” Quentin asks, softly, hand sliding around to hold on to his bare hip. Eliot has to tug away a little, to bend and spit, and rinse the toothpaste out of his mouth. Quentin’s patient, present, is still close by and holding on when Eliot straightens up.

“It’s getting worse,” Eliot admits, looking away from Quentin’s gaze. “I never remembered much from— what happened out here while I was trapped in the happy place. And when I did, it was like— something alien, like hearing a story about something rather than remembering it. But it’s like they’re all... the memories, they’re— filtering in.”

“I’m sorry.” Quentin’s voice, when he speaks, is soft with guilt, like he actually feels like he has to own responsibility for this. Which, no, that’s not right at all.

“It’s not your fault,” Eliot points out, frowning as Quentin’s face scrunches in protest.

“I mean like... some of it is, like, objectively, I was one the one who couldn’t control him—”

“No,” Eliot cuts in, twisting around until they’re face to face, fucking— standing naked in the bathroom. “Quentin, it’s not your fault.”

Shoulders collapsing, like the wind’s gone out of his sails, Quentin tips forward, arms sliding around Eliot’s waist. Warm little thing, god, Eliot fucking loves holding him, hugging him, wrapping his arms around the broad span of Quentin’s shoulders. “I’m glad you're here,” Q breathes, soft. Is he thinking of Julia, Eliot wonders, kicking around upstairs alone and cut off? Or is he remembering the time he spent walking around this penthouse like a ghost, trying to keep Eliot’s body safe? God knows no one could blame Q for hating feeling trapped here, too.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eliot promises, with quite a lot of certainty actually. There is literally nowhere else to go.

Q, who is not psychic but probably doesn’t need to be to follow Eliot’s trains of thought anymore, snorts a little. “You and me and the rest of the world, it seems.” But he’s smiling just a little when he pulls back, and then pushing up on his toes, face tipping up in a silent ask for Eliot to kiss him.

It still tastes a little like peppermint when he does.

__

“So,” Quentin starts, one night in early June. “I did some digging.”

“Can you be a little more specific?” Eliot asks, absently, not bothering to look up from the book in his lap, half expecting Quentin to elaborate about– Star Wars, or ordering dog food online, or Julia’s ongoing attempts to get some kind of communication into the Library.

“Therapists,” is what Quentin _actually_ says, walking over to the couch with his laptop in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He then proceeds to _climb up onto the couch,_ like, _with his feet_ , waving the laptop in Eliot’s face until he takes it, leaving Quentin free to brace his hand on Eliot’s shoulder and pretzel himself down onto the couch. 

“Have you ever considered sitting like a person?” Eliot asks, fondly amused, as Quentin wiggles his cute little butt into place, thigh against Eliot’s, and then makes a grabby hand for his laptop. 

“This is how people sit,” Quentin grumps in return, frowning with his eyebrows at Eliot, which is just– honestly so cute it makes up for the fact that he’s going to make Eliot talk about finding a therapist now. Then he seems to take in Eliot’s book, and the notebook, and his expression softens. “Is this a bad time? Just because I’ve finally worked myself up to doing it doesn’t mean we have to do this now.”

“No, it’s fine,” Eliot sighs, closing the book and sliding it onto the table. “Portals will wait, it’s not like we can go anywhere anyway. Plus, I’m getting a headache.”

“Yeah, this conversation is not going to make that better,” Quentin says, dry, then his expression turns thoughtful. He reaches out, and Eliot freezes, lets Quentin brush his thumb against the corner of his eye. “You squint when you read, you know?”

Eliot, squinting now, glares at him. “Are you saying I’m getting wrinkles?”

“I’m saying you should maybe get _glasses_.”

“That’s not better,” Eliot grumbles, and he has to– look away, from the blindingly tender, peeled-open look of fondness on Quentin’s face.

“I liked your glasses,” he says softly, and for a couple heartbeats, Eliot can remember the feel of the wireframes on his face, the way– Quentin, hunched and whiskery, would side them off his face when he thought Eliot had fallen asleep. _Just resting my eyes_ , Eliot would protest, and Quentin would laugh, _Okay, old man_. 

Swallowing against the memory, the immensity of the feeling that always accompanies remembering– a fucking _lifetime_ of love– Eliot nudges his cheek against Quentin’s hand. “I’d been the only person to touch your dick in about three decades at that point, I think you had to like them.” There’s a flash of hurt on Quentin’s face, salt in an old wound, and Eliot feels bad immediately because, fuck, _he knows_ , okay. He knows love is an action, a choice, god knows he’s been making that choice every day for over a year. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Defense mechanism.”

“I know,” Quentin sighs, his hand dropping down to squeeze Eliot’s thigh, before going back to his laptop. “Which brings us back to: therapists.” 

“Right,” Eliot sighs, looking at Quentin’s screen, which shows a profile of some kind, and then away, looking for the dog as a means of– avoidance? Distraction? She’s never far from Q, and she isn’t now, flopped out on her side on the floor by the other end of the couch. When he clicks his tongue, she scrambles up, trotting over to them so Eliot can bend down and scoop her up, wincing a little at the twinge in his back. 

“So there’s three,” Quentin starts, abscently reaching out to scritch the puppy behind her soft floppy ears. Dessy is, as always, more interested in Q than Eliot, but she has at least learned not to crawl on the laptop, so she must make do with Eliot’s second-rate lap to settle on. “Or three in the general Manhattan area, anyway, who are like– magical. I didn’t really check the other boroughs, because even if it’s all telehealth shit right now, I personally don’t want to schlep out to Queens and back to go to a therapist later on? I don’t really want to go to the other side of the island to go to a therapist, to be honest with you.”

“I’ll trust you on this,” Eliot agrees, because, well– he said he’d do this if Quentin did, and keeping promises to Q is pretty much the only thing Eliot’s doing with his life these days, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to do it at all. But he can see how having to travel to Bed-Stuy might make him want to do it less. “So, three?”

“Yep. A Magician and two hedges.” He shoots Eliot a look, both fond and exasperated, which Eliot doesn’t feel he’s exactly earned at this moment, thank you very much. “I figure we could start you with the Magician, and I can try one of the hedges, given your feelings about hedges.” 

“Our vet is a hedge. _We’re_ basically hedges, at this point,” Eliot points out, then, processing Quentin’s words, “What do you mean, _‘start me with’?_ ”

“Not every therapist is a good match,” Quentin sighs, scrolling over to a different tab, opening up. “Like, look, this one, Lydia, she’s one of the hedges. She doesn’t list, like, Queer mental health as one of her specialties? Which might be fine for me, honestly, like– my relationship with queerness is less–” he waves his hand around, making a face.

“Complicated?” Eliot offers, feeling a turn of unease in his stomach, and Quentin shakes his head.

“Less loaded. I don’t have a lot of baggage about being bi, it’s not something that I’ve been particularly fucked up about in my life.”

“Besides me being a shithead about it,” Eliot fills in, and Quentin sighs.

“I’m not trying to dig at you,” Q says, all big brown eyes, and Eliot has to look away, down at the dog in his lap. “All your defense mechanisms are kicking up, right now, and sorry to say that’s only going to get worse, but– I’m on your side, El.”

“I know,” Eliot tells the dog, then makes himself look up; lean in to brush their noses together, just a little bump that makes Q smile. “So um, what about the Magician?” 

“Patrick,” Quentin says, opening another tab. “He’s got LGBTQ stuff as a specialty. And like– a lot of other things, including my things, like depression and shit. But also like– childhood stuff? And substance use?”

Fuck. God. Eliot wants to use a substance right now. 

“This is going to really, really suck, isn’t it?” Eliot sighs, leaning back and covering his eyes with his hand so he can just– stop looking at things, for a bit.

“Yeah.” Quentin’s voice is soft, and even though Eliot can’t see his face like this, he can picture Q’s expression, and isn’t surprised when Quentin’s hand ends up back on his thigh, a warm, heavy weight. “But they tell me if it doesn’t start sucking less eventually, it’s a bad fit, and you need to find someone else.”

“They tell you?” Eliot repeats, lifting the corner of his hand to peek over at Q. 

Q smiles wryly. “I don’t think I ever exactly found a good fit, honestly.” 

“Auspicious beginnings,” Eliot sighs, shifting so he can lift his arm and wrap it around Quentin’s shoulders, tug him in against Eliot’s side. Softly, he says, “Thanks for doing this.”

Quentin shrugs, ducking his head so his hair swings into his face, hiding a little. It makes Eliot want to braid his hair, tuck it back, but— he understands needing things to hide behind something, doesn’t he? Q’s voice is a mumble when he says, “Thanks for like, encouraging me to do it, or whatever. Doing it yourself.”

“Well, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?” Eliot says, pulling as much bravado as he can muster. “Growing together?”

A dimple creases Quentin’s cheek when he looks up, eyes warm. “Guess so. Seems to be working so far.”

“That it is, Baby Q.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


End file.
